Shinona Cavern… Henry thought. Shinona Cavern… Mac brought me here the summer he showed me around Silver Mountain. It was the place where the legend is that an ancient king took refuge against a palace plot. He was followed here but escaped through the secret passageway that goes underground to the temple in Silver Mountain. Mac showed me the way. I’m sure it’s right here in this chamber.
The voices of their captors began to trail off. It was almost midnight. He sensed that soon they’d be checking on them one last time before morning. He lolled his head to the side as though still unconscious, then whispered, “Sunday, demand they throw blankets back here. Tell them you’re afraid Lloyd Cameron will die before ransom can be paid.”
It isn’t in the plan for Cameron to die yet, he thought.
A moment later he heard Sunday’s voice speaking fiercely. “Listen, bin Sayyid, I know you’re still ‘guiding’ us, you creep. Unless you want a dead hostage, you’ll at least give us something to cover Mr. Cameron.”
Good girl, Henry thought, then held his breath.
He heard a short barking spat of laughter, then through slitted eyes watched as, a few minutes later, a rolled blanket was pushed through the opening, followed by another one. Then a third cover of sorts began to come into view to the accompaniment of a spattering of small rocks.
It worked, he thought exultantly. “Sunday, while they’re still watching, pull me back farther,” he whispered, “as much away from their direct view as possible. Then cover me and pass the other blankets around.”
It only took a few minutes before his goal was accomplished. He sensed bin Sayyid was watching as Sunday tucked the blanket around him, then handed out the others.
When she lay down beside him, her back to the opening, shielding him from view, Sayyid snapped, “Sleep well. I don’t want to hear any mere demands. Got that?”
Quickly Henry whispered instructions. Sunday nodded, grabbed the soiled, scratchy blanket, shaped it to resemble a body, and threw her arm over it. The Camerons, grateful for the bit of warmth, were huddled together. They stared when he slid over to them.
“I’m going for help,” Henry whispered. “Hang on. Pretend to stay asleep as long as possible.”
Muffie Andrews had awakened. He put his lips against her ear. “You’ve got to keep that sharshaf and veil on.” He murmured to Pamela Andrews, “If bin Sayyid tries to come near her, say she’s unwell.”
They both understood what he meant. Pamela Andrews’s eyes widened in fear. “At least it isn’t boring,” Muffie tried to joke.
Henry patted her shoulder.
For an instant he touched Sunday’s hand, then began inching on his stomach to the place at the side and back of this chamber where, twenty-five years ago, he and the crown prince of Ahman had lifted the stone that led to a tunnel, hardly wider than a drainpipe, that had saved a sultan’s life twenty-five hundred years ago.
Three hours later, just outside Silver Mountain, the sleeping fourteen-year-old attendant of the camels used for picture-taking tourists stirred in his sleep. But he did not awaken as one of the camels was led from the enclosure by a man in a long robe and burnoose.
Henry, his robe torn and filthy, led the camel a safe distance before he ordered it to kneel. An instant later he was galloping to the capital city, a distance of at least four hours. He had to get in touch with Des. It was the only way.
In the cave, Sunday spent the night praying. Sometimes she heard Audrey Cameron murmuring to her husband. She thought she heard Muffie Andrews weeping. But, as a random touch of daylight started to trickle into the cavern, she thought: If he got through he might be in Acqiom now. Maybe help is already on the way.
It was nearly seven and the hot desert sun was rising high over the ancient city of Acqiom when Henry abandoned the exhausted camel and set into town on foot. Seven o’clock here, thirteen hours difference. Des would be in the White House. But how to get to him? He’d have to try to steal a tourist’s pocketbook in the market. Get a credit card. Make the call.
But the market was deserted. In the bay he could see two gleaming ocean liners. They probably had arrived during the night, but the tourists wouldn’t be here until at least nine. He couldn’t wait that long.
Despairingly he walked through the city in the direction of the palace. Built by Mac when he became monarch, it was a modern building with low, rounded rooftops and a pink-and-cream marble facade that reflected the brilliance of the sunrise. He could see that the palace was surrounded by guards.
Henry looked up at the windows that he knew were the private apartments of the monarch. He wanted to shout, “Mac!” the way he had when they were students in Cambridge. So near… But that traitor al Hez was in there too. At a hint of danger he’d step up his plan.
Henry turned. There was only one thing he could do. Would it work? Get to a hotel, get to a phone. He could not waste time. Sunday was going to be executed in less than two hours. When they realised he was missing, they might kill all the hostages.
The streets were still quiet, the shops still shuttered. In the direction of the bay, Henry could see the tip of a spire. Of course! The spire was part of the lavish new hotel they’d noticed on the minibus. “The sultan wished to promote tourism,” Sayyid had announced, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
There’s sure to be plenty of phones there. He had to get to one. But looking like this, they’d never let him in the door.
He loitered in the parking lot facing the entrance for fifteen minutes before he found his opportunity. The doorman stepped into the parking valet’s booth to the side of the entrance. He did not see the tall man in a soiled robe and torn burnoose, his pasted Vandyke beard slipping from his chin, stride through the wide luggage door into the lobby, which, to Henry’s dismay, was filled with media people. Pulling the loose end of the burnoose over his chin, Henry drifted through the crowd toward the corridor, where a sign indicated rest rooms and telephones.
He had almost cleared the lobby when an elevator door opened and Winston Andrews, accompanied by General al Hez, emerged.
Microphones were thrust at them; cameras popped, as Andrews, his face creased with fury and worry, announced, “I am going by helicopter to again stand by at the point where my wife and daughter disappeared. I am ready to pay any price to get them back. I have been heartened by the support of General al Hez, who has been candid about the problems of roving criminals in this country. He was personally responsible for rescuing a group of German tourists last year.”
Al Hez stepped forward. “I am ashamed that this has happened in my country. It should not have happened. All our resources are scouring the countryside. I return to the palace to be with the sultan.”
Why isn’t Mac speaking for himself? Henry thought. That swine al Hez is setting up the revolt. Andrews won’t blame him no matter what happens.
Accompanied by the general, Andrews strode through the lobby, angrily pushing away mikes that were raised before him. Any thought Henry had fleetingly entertained about trying to communicate with one of his associates disappeared. Sure, Andrews would believe him, but the slightest leak would be disaster. He didn’t doubt that those thugs were in touch with events. They’d kill the captives and get away if they thought something had gone wrong.
“You look familiar, friend.”
Henry turned, instinctively reaching to be sure the burnoose was covering the lower half of his face. It was Dan Rather, anchorman of CBS. His cameraman was behind him, the camera trained on Henry.
Henry frowned. “What do you want?” he barked in Arabic.
Rather looked uncertain. “Sorry.”
Henry thought, I can trust Dan, but then became aware of curious eyes on them. No. Not here and now. Ignoring the famous broadcaster, he again headed for the corridor. A phone booth was empty. He picked up the receiver, pressed zero, and asked to be connected to an overseas operator. Finally one came on.